Like You Mean It
by ruth baulding
Summary: Jedi Master Even Piell teaches an important lesson in control. (JA era, exhumed from author's private archives just for fun, and certifiably low-angst)
1. Chapter 1

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 1.**

"Garen. Garen. Wake up, Garen."

The victim of this pestering summons opened one eye and squinted through the darkness of the clan dormitory. Two straight rows of sleep-mats were laid out along the central aisle, all of them but one occupied by a gently snoring bundle of thermal blankets. The lamps were still powered down for the night, the Force flowing steady and serene over and around the tranquil younglings sheltered beneath their common roof.

"Go 'way, Obi," he grunted. "'S not time to get yet."

"It's time for _you_ to get up," his friend insisted, impatiently accenting the words with a vigorous shake.

"This is a stupid idea," Garen Muln groaned, seizing the blanket's hem and pulling it out of his tormentor's determined hands. "We'll get in trouble."

"You mean you don't like the idea and you're afraid to get in trouble," the other young Jedi student lectured him, primly. "That's different."

"I'm not afraid," Garen hissed, wincing as his bundled clothing was dumped unceremoniously upon his chest. "I'm _right. _And I'm tired…. I hardly slept the last three nights, thanks to you."

"Sorry," Obi-Wan replied without the slightest trace of sympathy. "We have to _practice."_

Garen flicked a hand and sent his small cylindrical pillow flying through the air at his companion's head. The missile thumped into something soft on the far side of the room, eliciting a snuffling grunt. Obi-Wan must have dodged it, confound him.

"'Member what Master Koi said yesterday? About _fret not for the future_?" Garen pulled his boots on with a sour expression. "I thought he made you meditate specially on the meaning of that." He tugged the straps tight. It was nice to have real boots – a sign that he was maturing, almost ready to be chosen as a Padawan. He wriggled his toes inside the firm nerf-hide, and suppressed a huge yawn. "You're slacking off on your studies."

They tiptoed to the entrance, past Master Troon's smaller bedchamber, through the darkened common room, shielding tightly all the way. Obi-Wan waved open the main door, grinning broadly as the portal slid open at his Force-manipulation.

The dim lights in the passageway outside picked out his profile in a soft blue glow. He half-turned to Garen, eyes bright with challenge. "I _did_ meditate on it. And the best way to not fret about the future is to _do_ something about it. So I'm out of bed addressing the problem instead of lying in bed fretting about it." They moved quickly down the corridor, senses stretched taut for signs of others' presences. "Or in your case, just lying in bed."

Garen socked him in the arm.

"Ow. Do you want to be chosen or not?" Obi-Wan demanded as the two of them moved into the adjoining concourse and trotted silently past a row of sealed doors to the arched opening at the far end. "You only have maybe two more years, you know."

"Yes! I know!" Garen exclaimed in a fierce whisper, exasperation edging his tone. "Two years! When are you going to learn patience?"

They were a long hallway distant from the nearest turbolift, the one that would carry them all the way down to the junior dojo level. Obi-Wan paused, pretending to think it over. "When you can beat me in a footrace."

They spared one more glance at the lift's burnished doors, and sprang into motion at the same instant, dashing headlong down the narrow passage. Garen was slightly leggier than his agemate, which gave him an edge in running competitions, at least when his friend was playing fair. They sprinted along the corridor, head and head; Garen smirked, summoned the Force, tripped his competitor a few meters short of the lift, and then slammed into its heavy doors in his triumphant haste. He pushed the controls breathlessly, only to find them jammed and unresponsive.

"You bantha-head!" he yelped at his friend, who was still sprawled on the carpeted floor, but successfully holding the lift closed with an upraised hand, palm held outward.

Two could play at that. Garen replied with his own effort, using both hands to counteract his opponent's Force push, concentrating on shoving the doors open against the invisible resistance. The metal panels creaked slightly beneath the combined pressure.

Without warning they flew apart, a second well-placed shove between Garen's shoulder blades sending him stumbling forward into the open compartment. Grinning in triumph, he spun on his heel and closed the doors, reaching for the control panel –

-only to realize that the emergency maintenance override had been activated from outside the carriage. It would return the lift to basement level, many stories beneath his destination. Grinding his teeth, he leaned against the handrail and waited to be released as the small box lurched downward, affording his cunning foe a vital head start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 2**

Jedi Master Even Piell strolled at a measured pace down the hallway leading to the west turbolift, large ears flapping and glossy black top-knot swishing against his compact shoulders. His circadian rhythms still in disarray from his last off-world mission, he had found it impossible to sleep on Coruscant's schedule. After passing most the night in meditation, he thought to stretch his limbs in some form of gentle exercise – the alchaka forms perhaps- before daybreak and the resumption of his Councilor's role and other strenuous duties. Upon reaching the lift, however, he discovered that it had been returned to basement level for maintenance and was no longer in operation.

With a grunt and a shrug he made his way to the stairwell and began the long descent to the lower levels of the Temple, short legs carrying him down the steps with a springing vitality far in excess of his dwarfish stature. He had not traversed more than a few flights when a young initiate overtook him in a series of Force-propelled bounds, coming round the bend of the upper flight and taking all twenty steps of the next in a single leap ending in a crouch on the landing.

"Pardon me, master!" the youngling breathlessly implored him, turning to propel himself down the next flight in similar fashion.

"Vo! Vo! Vo! Vait just a minute!" Even replied, scarred face rumpling into an amused smile as the human boy managed to catch himself in mid-jump, resembling a colwar cub trying to stop itself from pouncing into open water.

"Master?"

Even stumped his way down to the landing and surveyed the youngling with critical eye. Ten or eleven standard, he guessed, and undeniably bright in the Force. His aura was alight with mischief. "Vat's the hurry, hm? Vere are you headed to so early in the morning?" He tried to put a name to the impish face, but he hadn't spent much time in the crèche lately and couldn't quite pin the boy down.

"To the dojo," the youngling answered politely, blue eyes shifting momentarily to the stairs. He was manifestly anxious to be on his way. "I am… meeting a friend there," he added by way of explanation for his haste. He was also gazing in barely concealed curiosity at Even's deforming scar, as so many his age did.

The Lannik master shoved two thick thumbs through his belt. "He must be a very impatient friend. A Jedi shouldn't be so hasty. You can't let others' vorries inform your own mind." He blocked the child's path, flirting with the idea of asking where the clan master was.

"Oh. Yes, master." The boy clearly wished to be dismissed.

Even decided to deal with the situation personally. "I'm headed the same vay as you, as it happens. Vy don't you accompany me?" He chuckled inwardly as the youngster smothered his frustration and bowed, respectfully, all perfect manners.

"Vell, let's go," the Jedi Master snorted, and headed down the stairs again, the boy falling sedately into place beside him.

"Now," he continued as they made a more dignified descent to the lower level concourse. "It's Obi-Van, isn't it? I remember you – it took a vile. I'm not in Temple all the time anymore…and you've grown a half-meter since the first time ve met."

"And you haven't grown at all, Master Piell," the boy replied, deadpan.

"Qvality not qvantity," the admittedly diminutive Jedi grunted. "So vat's the rush? Vy this mad sprint down the stairs to meet your friend in the dojo, eh?"

"Oh, ah… well, Garen and I were going to practice one more time before the exhibition tournament this morning," the initiate explained, a trifle bashfully.

Even trotted down the shallow steps at a steady pace. "Oh ho- so you're in a big hurry to be chosen as a Padavan, is that it? That's a long and difficult path, Obi-Van. You don't vant to rush into it until you are qvite ready."

"I think I'm ready, master," his earnest companion asserted.

"Do you? Vell, tell me this: if you are so certain, then vy are you so eager to get to the dojo for some extra practice, eh?"

The Jedi master was pleased to see that the boy did not immediately offer excuse or justification. Instead, he brooded upon the question for several paces, brows drawn together in thought.

"I think I am ready," he replied, finally. "But I could still be even readier than _that."_

"_Ha!_ Dere's no such ting as _readier,"_ Even informed him. "And here ve are. And dis fellow must be your impatient friend."

The second youngling was waiting for them with a smug grin of vistory plastered on his face. He made a deep bow when the senior Jedi approached.

"Master," he said. And then, in an aside to his friend, "Thank you for the lesson in _patience."_

A ripple of ironic amusement ran through the Force. Even had no doubt what sort of contest he had interrupted : doubtlessly some kind of race – a forbidden pastime nonetheless universally indulged in by the more spirited of the Temple's residents, especially adolescent males of every species. He snorted, reflecting that he knew _exactly_ the remedy for such a excess of energy.

"Come vit me, you two," he commanded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 3**

Garen Muln stood at the back of the small crowd of tournament hopefuls, rubbing at a crick in his neck and right shoulder. Performing the alchaka meditations with Master Piell – the _long_ form, slowly, three times on a row – was not his idea of getting in some early practice. He shot a sideways glare at Obi-Wan, who stood beside him with folded arms and impassive expression. He did not appear to be sore or tired, but then everyone knew that Obi was a first class faker who could keep his composure intact despite pain, exhaustion, frustration, stress, and even anger. Well, unless you really pushed the right button. There were very few people who knew how to do that: Garen, Bant, and maybe – he hated to admit it – that gundark Bruck Chun. You had to realize that it was the _impersonal _ things – ideas, loyalties, ethics – that really got under Obi's skin. Teasing him was as easy as womprat pie if you impugned his _honor. _ Of course, then you paid the price in barbed witticisms and the occasional no holds barred wrestling match. But it was worth it.

He sidled closer as Anoon Bondara and the referees pored over the lists for the competition. "Your idea of extra practice is very different from mine," he growled in his friend's ear. "Good job."

Obi-Wan's eyes widened in outrage. "How was I supposed to know Master Piell was on the stairs? He _ambushed_ me."

"It was your _choice_ to run down the stairs to beat me. No such thing as chance, remember? You prob'ly were showing off in hopes of being chosen as his Padawan."

An amusing image – just think! A Padawan taller than his master… and likely Obi's only chance of _ever_ achieving such enviable comparative altitude.

"I wasn't showing off," came the growling rebuttal to this accusation.

"Admit it. You're desperate."

Obi-Wan's cheeks flamed. The taunt had been too close for comfort. "It's better than _hopeless_," he snipped.

Garen relented, taking a different tack and leaning in closer to whisper in his friend's ear.. "Never mind – I think Master Piell is too kind-hearted for you, anyway. I hope you get the master you _deserve. _Somebody with no sense of humor. Somebody so strict that you end up as timid as a _mussil_ and get your arse whipped in every fight."

"Force forbid," Obi-Wan replied, levelly. "I might be mistaken for _you."_

"Ha!" Garen grinned broadly. "Look, look up there in the observation balcony. There, next to Master Yoda." They glanced up surreptitiously to the crowd of elders perched in the broad upper tier. A tall man stood beside the Grand Master, long hair reaching apst his shoulders, arms crossed over his broad chest, a scowl of disdain or annoyance marring his leonine features. "That's Master Jinn. The infamous one. He looks mean enough for the job."

"He's here to escort you to the Ag-Corps after the tournament, Garen. You're to be made Chief of Organic Fertilizer Production."

"I hope you get paired with Bruck today, you pest."

A tall Nautolan girl standing nearby shot them a look which may have been intended to kill, and they fell silent, exchanging a meaningful but not quite sober look between themselves.

The swordsmaster stepped into the center of the sparring arena and called out the matches for the first round. Each student was paired with an opponent roughly equal in skill and speed; the winners would proceed to the second round. The losers would still have an opportunity to prove themselves before the observant crowd of masters in the upper balcony- a few of these might even be asked to continue in the tournament if they caught a potential teacher's eye, the purpose of the competition being merely to exhibit the range of strengths and skills possessed by each youngling eligible for apprenticeship. Traditionally, at least one among the initiates would be officially chosen by one of the Knights or Masters gathered to watch the event.

Master Bondara moved down the long list quickly."Kenobi versus Chun," he announced near the end of his recitation.

Garen nudged his companion in the arm as they moved forward to square off against their assigned opponents. The contest would not fail to be interesting now, he reflected.


	4. Chapter 4

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 4**

Jedi Master Even Piell serenely watched the proceedings from the front row of the balcony, where he and Yoda might be afforded a view unobstructed by their taller comrades. He always attended the exhibition tournaments, although his current position on the High Council all but precluded the possibility of taking on another apprentice. He had trained a handful of Jedi into Knighthood already – despite his advanced age by human standards, he was still more than vigorous enough to handle an adolescent's boisterous spirits. It would take an exceptional student to tempt him to once again undertake that harrowing task, of course – but he wasn't opposed in principle. Besides, he enjoyed the rough and tumble of a good sparring bout.

He grinned in martial delight as the numerous mock duels played themselves out, and one competitor after another was vanquished by his or her peers. He winced as Garen Muln – a tall, rather skinny, but undeniably fast young human- delivered a crushing blow to his Nautolan opponent and made the formal bow that signified the end of a match. Finally, there were only two students left on the floor: a pair of lean muscular boys still fighting with ferocious energy and an evenly matched skill. One had a shock of white hair and a singularly _sharp_ Force signature. Even shifted his weight and shook his head slightly, setting his long ears to waggling. The other was Obi-Wan, the same boy he had apprehended in the stairwell and then run through those grueling drills prior to this contest's commencement.

"He's fighting defensively," he observed to the man standing on his right. "Dat's an unusual skill at dis age. Normally, dey just vant to bash the other fellow into the mats."

"Hm," Qui-Gon Jinn agreed, frowning at the spectacle below with a less than enthusiastic mien. The white haired boy was raining down blows in a blur of motion, while his counterpart merely parried and evaded and moved slowly in tight circles, forcing the aggressor to constantly shift the angle of his attack. It was a solid and conservative strategy- eventually the angry assailant would drop in his tracks. The audience waited in tense expectation for the final result.

The Lannik's extraordinarily keen hearing caught the fragments of an exchange between the two boys.

"Why don't you _fight, _Oafy? Afraid you might trip?" the white haired duelist sneered.

In answer, his opponent slipped deftly to the side of Chun's last thrust, allowing the other's saber to pass searingly close to his side without landing a hit. He spun around Chun's right side, ending back to back with his foot inside the other boy's stance. When Bruck shifted weight to slash backhanded at his foe, a quick jerk of the foot sent him sprawling clumsily across the floor. His training saber clattered away to land at the referee's feet.

"Yield," Anoon Bondara ordered, but Chun had already summoned the fallen blade into his hand again, and was rolling to avoid a downward killing strike – one that never happened.

Obi-Wan had already deactivated his 'saber, thinking the contest ended.

Chun leapt forward to the attack again, heedless of the rules of tourney. In a flash, Obi-Wan's blade was reignited and sweeping up to block the renewed assault, a bit tardily and off-balance. Bruck pressed his advantage, slicing and striking more aggressively than ever. Obi-Wan was forced back, almost to the wall. The other students parted and smoothly drew to the sides to allow the illicit fight to progress. A murmur of protest rose, but Anoon Bondara scowlingly raised a hand to signal that the match would continue.

Chun had his prey fairly pinned against the wall now; the two boys had locked their sabers in a tight bind and stood snarling at each other across the crossed blades, pushing ferociously against one another.

"You can't win by using a dirty, dishonorable _trick,_ farm boy," the white haired initiate hissed.

Even Piell shook his head in disapproval. Such an epithet had disparaging connotation among the younger generation – a reference to the young initiates assigned to the Agricultural Service Corps at the termination of their Temple studies. Some students persisted in the erroneous and pernicious belief that such individuals were "failed" Jedi simply because they did not pursue the path of a warrior-diplomat. As the scion of a wealthy mercantile house on an urbane homeworld, Chun was more prone than others to such condescending judgments. And in this case, Even reflected, his taunt only served to demonstrate which of the two was more civilized.

"Nobody wants an apprentice who uses trickery because he's too weak in the Force to –"

Bruck's savage teasing was cut short by an explosive Force push that sent him sailing clear into opposite wall. He slammed violently into the padded surface and slid to the floor with a short groan, winded and disoriented. A healer hurried over to tend him, while Anoon Bondara stalked to the perpetrator's side, one hand extended to confiscate the training 'saber in full view of the other students and the assembled masters.

"Chun is disqualified for renewing his attack after match point, and for indulging in verbal abuse. And Kenobi is disqualified for excessive and unbecoming use of the Force." The swordsmaster's words hung stark in the stunned and silent air.

Even shook his head as Obi-Wan bowed wordlessly and made a beeline for the exit, disappearing into the antechamber beyond with burning cheeks and sparkling eyes, a trail of hot shame rippling in his forlorn wake.

"Idiotic young hotheads," Qui-Gon Jinn murmured dismissively.

"Dey voudln't be the first," Even reminded him, tartly.

And then he too made for the nearest exit, on business of his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 5**

Garen Muln finished the tournament in fifth place – a very honorable acquittal for someone who was not quite eleven. Nobody chose him for a Padawan , but he was in no particular hurry, and several of the Masters had complimented him or given him a kind and encouraging nod. Garen felt confident that his time would come, when it was meant to be. He was satisfied with the contest's outcome in all ways but one: he couldn't find Obi-Wan anywhere, and suspected that the disastrous duel with Bruck Chun had put his friend in a morose mood.

Garen finally abandoned the fruitless search and betook himself to the dining hall for some well-deserved luncheon. Let the silly _poodoo_ head work himself into a guilt-ridden frenzy. Master Yoda always said it was folly to worry about another's worries; this accomplished nothing but doubling the sum total of distress in the universe. Rather, one should do something positive to change or alleviate the cause of the worry.

Or failing that, eat. That was always a practical thing to do. Even a Jedi has to eat.

He reported in to Master Troon that his quest to locate the AWOL member of their clan had been a failure, and was dismissed to join the other Dragons in the dining hall. He had just sat down at an empty table, ready to wolf down the enormous servings of kachli dumplings and stew he had fetched for himself, when a very tall figure in dark brown robes suddenly appeared and sat across from him. It was a Jedi master he knew only by name and formidable reputation.

"Master Jinn!" he squeaked nervously.

"You fought well today, Garen," the tall man said kindly. His face was craggy and his eyes were keen like a hawk, but but his voice was mellow and gentle. Garen felt himself relax. "You did not lose control like some of the others."

"Well, I wasn't provoked like some of the others, master," Garen said modestly.

"It is a wise man who does not give others cause to provoke him," was Master Jinn's solemn answer. Garen wasn't sure what this meant, so he merely nodded. "I saw you training earlier this morning with Master Piell. What did you think of the alchaka centering exercises? They are many centuries old."

"Yes, master. He told us. Chakora Seva formalized them, he said. But it was hard… I don't think I would study them by choice. Of course, Obi-Wan probably will – he loves everything that's hard and takes a lot of control."

"That would not appear to be the case to a casual observer," Master Jinn commented dryly.

Garen felt embarrassed on his friend's behalf. "Master, I hope you won't think ill of Obi-Wan or Bruck." He added in the latter name because a Jedi should not feel special attachment or prefer one person over another, commend one peer above the next. "They weren't at their best today. Well, actually they were rather at their worst. Nobody should be judged by his worst moment, should he?"

Qui-Gon Jinn looked thoughtful for a long moment, as though the question stirred a painful memory. "Perhaps not," he grudgingly acceded. "But worst moments have a way of defining the course of a life. You are a loyal friend, Garen," he added with a forced smile. "That is a virtue."

"Thank you," Garen answered, uncertainly, as the Jedi master rose once again and politely took his leave.

He sat, scarfing down his meal and wondering what the interview had been all about. Rumor had it that Master Jinn had sworn never to take another Padawan, after his last one had left the Order under scandalous circumstances. Rumor also had it that Master Jinn was a complete maverick – bending the Code to breaking point whenever it suited him, always on his own quest, headstrong and defiant even to the Council, and yet nevertheless a very great, very respected Jedi. Why he would care about something as petty and inconsequential as a rivalry between two young students in the Temple, Garen could not imagine. Nor could he fathom why the tall man had bothered to make conversation with him, specially.

And then a terrible thought occurred to him, one that made his appetite flee. What if the Jedi master had been…. _assessing_ him?

The thought if being apprenticed to the completely intimidating and wildly defiant renegade master made his stomach flip. The Force wouldn't do that to him, would it? His heart pounded hard against his ribs for a few minutes, but in the end the absurd though dissipated into a haze of commonsense denial, and then relief. He happily lined up with his age-mates to return to the upper levels for afternoon classes, reflecting that someone as inured to breaking rules as Qui-Gon Jinn would eventually break even his self-imposed ban on Padawans, and choose himself a new apprentice. And Force help whoever that unfortunate individual might be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 6**

Even Piell made his way through the Room of a Thousand Fountains in a meandering circuit, following the course of a burbling rivulet that led eventually to a small waterfall cascading over a moss-encrusted promontory. There was, he knew, a small cave behind the waterfall – one he had discovered himself as a tiny youngling, many many decades ago, when every silver haired Jedi in the Temple now had been a mere child. Except old Yoda, of course. He had been silver haired even then.

Reaching the once familiar veil of tumbling water, and parting it like a curtain with a wave of his hand, he discovered at last the person whom he was seeking. Obi-Wan had taken refuge in the miniature cave; he sat in meditation posture, legs crossed, hands held loosely before him, cupped together with palms up. Five perfect shimmering droplets were suspended above them, floating serenely in midair, wavering only slightly in the cool draft.

The Lannik master coughed gently, and the water droplets fell, splattering upon the boy's open hands as he started out of his contemplative state. Even ducked beneath the tumbling water and sat beside the young initiate without waiting for the formality of an invitation. The cave was a bit cramped for two, but they fit nicely enough, being neither of them on the hefty side. And it did afford a lovely spot for a private conversation.

"So," Even grunted, scooting into the back corner so that his topknot brushed the low ceiling, "Practicing control are ve? And skipping a meal to do it. Dat's pretty strict discipline."

Disconcerted by his unexpected guest's arrival, and blushing violently, the boy ducked his head. "Yes, master."

"Vo! Don't be shy vit me, my boy. I came to talk vit you, not chew you up and spit you out."

"Um… yes, master."

"So," Master Piell continued, brusquely. "That fellow Chun got all the vay under your skin, eh? Vords like he used can be powerful veapons."

"It was my own fault, master," Obi-Wan asserted, warming to the topic or else accepting that the Jedi master would not be leaving anytime soon unless he cooperated. "I let him provoke me. There's nothing to be upset about."

Even chuckled. "But here you are, upset about it anyvay, but trying to force yourself not to be upset. Dat's a good trick, my boy. Vat's your idea, hm?"

"I'm going to learn _patience,"_ the youngster replied, fiercely.

"Vat? Patience? How long do you tink it takes to learn patience, eh?"

"I don't know," Obi-Wan answered, with a hint of sullenness. "But I don't care either," he added, the fierce note creeping back into his voice. "I'll stay here all day. All night too if I have to. As long as it takes." He watched the water falling endlessly over its small cliff, staring into the glittering depths as though challenging the Force itself to contradict his assertion.

The youngling had _spirit._ And a wee bit too much sass. Even snorted. "Let me tell you something, my boy. Dis is how learning patience vorks: first, it has to be smelted out of raw ore. Dat's the work of a good teacher. In your case, ve're looking at ten years hard labor, easy. Then, vonce you've got the basic habit, you've got to forge it on your own anvil. Best vay to do that is to try teaching it to someone else. Say, another ten years or so. If you manage to survive that, vell then, you're a beginner. Self-mastery takes a lifetime."

"But, master…!"

"Vat? You've got loads of time, my boy. How old are you now?"

"Eleven standard."

"Vell, then, let's say by the time you've made it to thirty-five or so, ve're looking at a patient Obi-Van. On a good day. Dat's assuming you've been vorking hard at it the whole time. It might take longer if you don't court adversity."

The boy looked so appalled that his companion had to laugh heartily. "Dere's other things you can stand to learn, my boy," he assured the distraught initiate. "Like control."

Obi-Wan' shoulders slumped.

"Tell you vat. You run along back to Dragon Clan, and ve'll talk about control tomorrow. Vat do you say?"

The boy perked up a tad at the offer of further instruction, though he cast a sidelong suspicious glance at the dwarfish master crouched beside him. "Will it take twenty years to learn?"

Even Piell snorted. "Vat? You tink I'm that bad a teacher?"

"No, master!"

"Vell, then. Scoot. And I vant you to apologize to that veasel Chun, too. Your vord of honor, now."

The youngling grinned, and managed a sort of truncated bow in the tight confines of their shelter, and then extricated himself from behind the falls as Even clove the spilling water in two with the Force.

He watched the muddy tunics and bristling chestnut hair disappear around a bend in the path before sticking his thumbs through his belt and ambling back through the gardens himself, formulating a curt excuse to offer Yoda when he appeared late for the day's scheduled Council session.


	7. Chapter 7

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 7**

Garen found a convenient place to eavesdrop while Troon Palo read Obi-Wan the riot act inside his small private office. He couldn't make out particular words or phrases through the muffling wall that stood between them, but the clan master's stentorian rumble was loud and varied enough to suggest that the culprit was receiving a sound verbal thrashing for his unauthorized disappearance, and for his conduct in the salles, too.

When they reemerged, Troon's fur was standing on end, dark tufts bristling around his ears and sticking up comically between his neck and his tunic collars, and Obi-Wan was contemplating the floor and not making eye contact with anyone.

Garen bounced to his side. "'S free time," he announced. "How bout a game of Dodgems? We'll get Reeft to be It."

But Obi-Wan shook his head. "I can't." He cast a heavy glance in the direction of the adjacent dormitory room, now tidied up for the day, all the sleep mats rolled into neat bundles along one wall. "I have to meditate."

"Oh." Garen watched his friend trudge off to complete the assigned penalty while everybody else enjoyed a good tussle in the common area. His heart really wasn't in the game, and Reeft pegged him pretty hard in the head with a hoverball, and his nose bled and Reeft was seized with remorse and didn't want to play anymore and their combined bad temper made little Bant weep. Some of the other eight and nine year olds began to sniffle too, because the Force was disturbed with everyone else's emotions, and then Troon had to step in and take the whole lot of them on a long walk around the outside gardens.

Obi-Wan was allowed to come to dinner, and he was ready to eat a bantha, having skipped lunch by mistake.

"Starving," he remarked, applying himself to his meal with unashamed enthusiasm.

"Are you going to finish that?" Reeft inquired.

"Yes," Obi snapped, moving his bread to a strategically defensible position on the right side of his plate. Reeft's shoulders drooped but he did not press the siege.

Garen gave Reeft his bread roll. "Here. Knock yourself dead."

"You don't have to be rude," the Dressalian mournfully replied.

Obi-Wan's brows rose. "That's diplomatic tact from Garen's point of view." He bit into his own roll with evident relish.

"Hey." Garen pointed to Bear Clan, presently filing in through the refectory's wide arched entrance. "There's Bruck. The _choobazzi._"

"Garen!"

"What? He is. It's not disrespect, It's the truth."

Troon's enormous furry hands settled on the table between the boys. "If you have the vocabulary of a spice miner, Muln, maybe I should ship you off to Kessel for an internship," he growled.

"Sorry, master," the malefactor peeped.

Obi-Wan polished off his bread, raising one supercilious brow at his chastised companion.

"You should _talk,_ Kenobi," Garen hissed at him when the clan master had moved on to another table. "Who got his hide whupped this afternoon and had to miss free time?"

"It could be worse," Reeft pointed out. "You might have had to skip dinner."

They blanched at the thought. Clan masters were forbidden to impose cruel and unusual punishments, weren't they?

"Excuse me." Obi-Wan abruptly rose and headed across the broad room, making a beeline for the small table where Chun had secreted himself with two or three loyal admirers.

"What's he doing?"

"Dunno," Reeft shrugged. "Looking for more trouble?"

They craned their heads to get a better view of the proceedings, and then stifled a gasp apiece as Obi-Wan went down on one knee before Bruck, in the traditional posture of humility. Head bent, he murmured some unheard string of words – an eloquent apology, by the look on Obi's red face and the tiny curl of contempt playing about the corner of Chun's mouth. At last, the white-haired boy, after an expressive and amused glance at his companions, waved his contrite supplicant away with a casual gesture and a few brief words of dismissal.

The attention of the entire assembly on him, Obi-Wan made his way back to Reeft and Garen, cheeks and ears flaming.

"Did Troon tell you to do that?" Garen demanded in a hoarse whisper.

Obi sat, and scowled.

"What did he say?" Reeft wanted to know.

Another deep scowl.

"Well?" the boys chorused.

"You were right, Garen. He _is_ a choobazzi."

Well, of course he was right. But there was no point rubbing in his superiority. Garen got up to fetch them some dessert instead. It seemed like the safest recourse at the moment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 8**

Troon Palo relinquished the young scalawag into Master Even Piell's keeping early the next morning. "He won't miss much," the tall clan master informed his Lannik colleague. "Healers are coming up to do routine physicals. In fact, it's better for everyone concerned if he's not here."

Obi-Wan trotted along docilely enough as Even led him along an unfamiliar concourse on the sixth level. "Where are we going, master? This isn't the way to the dojo."

"I'm taking you to the dungeons vere the Order keeps vastrels like you," Master Piell quipped.

The boy faltered visibly, provoking a deep chuckle.

"Vo! Easy. I'm just tvisting your tail, Obi-Van. Ve're going to the solarium on the east side, vere ve can have a serious talk."

"Oh, Yes, master."

Once safely ensconced in the long perma-glass enclosed balcony overlooking Coruscant's endless metropolitan sprawl, they knelt side by side in a lavish beam of morning sunshine.

Master Piell broached the difficult topic without preamble. "Now. Let's discuss dat Force throw you used yesterday against Chun. Totally inappropriate."

Obi-Wan projected a fair amount of remorse. "I'm sorry, master. it won't happen again. I did offer an apology to Bruck like you said… although he didn't exactly accept it."

Even grunted. "So? That doesn't invalidate your own vords. You did the honorable thing. But you're vandering off-topic."

The boy sighed.

"I tink it's time ve discussed control,. Throwing Chun across the room the vay you did vas a prime example of sloppy control."

"I know, master," the youngling impatiently asserted. "I lost control of my emotions and-"

"Don't interrupt, Obi-Van. That vas a prime example of sloppy control. You just gathered the Force villy-nilly and tossed that guy like a pillow into the vall. How's that supposed to be a useful skill? You tink that's going to save your neck in a pitched battle?"

The young Jedi gaped at him.

"Now listen, my boy. Vit well-honed _control,_ you should have left a dent or a crack in the vall. You can't just toss your opponent like a sack of tubers. You've got to _hurl_ him. Like a spear. Like lightning." He accented this statement with a curt hand gesture.

"I …I.. master, are you sure…?" The boy was staring at him now as though truly seeing him for the first time.

"Vat? Of course I'm sure. I don't know vere you learned how to do that, but you had bad tutoring. You don't vant to push outvard from your own center- that's trying too hard. Just place your invard focus at an infinite distance, inhale to center, and then _breathe _into the throw. Send your foe into hyperspace vit it."

A slow grin spread over the youngling's face, revealing two deep dimples.

"It's a matter of proper control," Even continued sternly. "I tink you need to practice until you master it. You're going to vork on that until you learn better. Much more useful vay to spend your time than skipping meals and levitating vater droplets, eh?"

"Yes, master."

They practiced for a good long while, until one of Even's more emphatic demonstrations sent a bench cushion careening into the curved panoramic window at a velocity great enough to leave a hairline fracture.

"You overdid it, master."

"Vell, you get the general idea. Let's go."

They traipsed along the corridors in companionable silence, until Obi-Wan worked up the nerve to ask the obvious question.

"Master.. wouldn't it be against all the rules to throw Bruck like that? I don't want to hurt him. I mean, not truly."

"I didn't say to throw _anybody_ like that, my boy. Ideally, a Jedi never has to use the Force that vay. But ven you do, don't do it half-vay."

"Half way?"

"You say you don't truly vant to hurt Bruck. Dat's good. So vy throw him? Dat's doing something halfvay, veak and foolish. If you are going to do _anything_ involving the Force, do it like you mean it."

"Oh. But what about Bruck?"

"Vat about him? Is he really vorth your notice? You've got better tings to focus on now. Like control."

They arrived back at the clan dormitory just as the healers were making a bedraggled exit.

"Its been a pleasure," Even addressed his young companion. "Remember: control. Like you mean it."

Obi-Wan bowed, and darted inside the dormitory before the last straggling medic could spot him. Even nodded once to a curious Troon, and then took his leave, hoping the essential lesson in self control would stick.


	9. Chapter 9

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Scene 9**

"Obi. Obi. Wake up, Obi."

The twisted bundle of thermal blankets shifted slightly, but no coherent response met this urgent summons. Garen Muln considered the soft heap carefully, noting the pair of bare feet and the tuft of auburn hair protruding from either end of the rolled bedclothes. He decided to concentrate his attack on the former target. Straddling his friend's midriff, he set to tickling and tweaking with a vengeance – and it wasn't his fault if he got bucked off hard enough to send him sprawling into the aisle on his own backside.

Obi-Wan's face emerged from its hiding place. "Garen," he grumbled, squinting balefully at his tormentor. "I'm _tired."_

"'S time to get up. Come on. Master Troon says Bear Clan challenged us to a _skills contest._ Before breakfast. Right now. Get up."

The prospect of any kind of rumpus was enough to dispel his friend's grogginess. "Bear clan?" Obi-Wan squeaked. "Let's go." He scrambled for his clothing and pulled his tunic on inside–out.

"Hurry up," Garen advised, trotting away to join the younglings lining up at the outside door. "We're not waiting for you."

Of course, they did end up waiting. Bant held them all up by needing the 'fresher at the last moment, and then Chiro lost his left boot and everyone had to go looking for it, and then Master Troon decided they were in lamentable disarray and made them sit perfectly still without moving a muscle for a whole minute and then _finally_ they were ready to go, not a single member of Dragon Clan more eager to join the promised fray than Garen and Obi-Wan.

Special rivalry was forbidden, but Bear Clan had more than its fair share of star-forsaken _choobazzis._

Master Bondara had agreed to referee the early morning recreation. He had various obstacles and training equipment set up in a wide circuit around the larger upper level practice room.

"Climbing, leaping, balance, evasion, and of course telekinesis," the weapons-master tersely explained the various points of interest. "I shall score each participant and the Clan as a whole. You may proceed – in an _orderly fashion."_

It was a lovely way to start the day – at least until Garen and Obi-Wan's smaller group ended up matched with a cluster of older Bears near the last portion of the course.

"Hey Oafy. What are _you_ doing here? This is a contest of _skill."_

Garen tensed for combat, but Bruck's barbs didn't seem to have the same power over his friend this morning.

Obi-Wan cocked an eyebrow. "I assumed it was remedial instruction… since you are here, Bruck."

The white haired boy's watery eyes narrowed. "You know what, Kenobi? You don't even have the _skill_ to hack it in the Ag-Corps. You're too runty to handle the equipment."

Obi-Wan held Garen back with one hand, gazing blandly at his opponent. "The same principle must explain why I never see you in the Archives study alcoves."

A pair of hard calloused hands settled on the two contestants' shoulders. "Do I sense an unbecoming distraction brewing over here?" Anoon Bondara's gravelly voice inquired.

"No, master," the malfeasants intoned.

"Good. Let's see you throw these sandbags to that marker on the floor, or as close as you can come."

The initiates took turns demonstrating their nascent Force powers. A few came quite close to the mark, and Bruck actually overshot it by an impressive margin.

"Skill, Oafy," he whispered as he returned to the back of the line.

Obi-Wan shrugged and stepped forward to take his turn. He lifted the sack, held it wobbling in the air, and then allowed it to drop again, turning around again with bowed shoulders as Chun and his minions snickered quietly in the back row.

And then he thrust a hand casually behind his back and sent the sandbag _hurtling –_ like a spear, like lightning – far past the marker and clear into the opposite wall, narrowly missing Troon's head and leaving a sizeable crack in the plaster.

Bruck was struck speechless.

Garen stared.

MasterBondara retrieved the split sack and muttered something under his breath, ending in "just as bad as that scoundrel Jinn."

As they filed back to their own clans to await the final results of the tournament, Chun leaned in to give a last assurance to his erstwhile bullying victim. "I didn't really mean it, you know," he whispered.

"I did," Obi-Wan replied, with a very tiny smile.

They parted on terms of mutual understanding.


	10. Chapter 10

**Like You Mean It**

* * *

**Epilogue**

Even Piell entered the lift at the south spire's base, waving the doors closed with a brusque gesture. He had half a mind to do it.

Why not?

It was extremely irregular for an active Council member to take on a new Padawan; those with students now had been elevated after the apprenticeship was well under way. And it was perhaps inadvisable for a master so prone to accept dangerous espionage missions to drag a youngster into his affairs. These were important considerations on the con side of his internal debate. On the pro side was simply the undeniable charm and intelligence of the initiate in question. _Somebody _ had to train that boy. It would be a colossal waste of talent otherwise.

And Master Piell was a firm believer in never delegating to _somebody_ else what one could do oneself.

He exited the lift only ten minutes late for Council, and ignored Yoda's trollish glare as he took his customary place in the circle.

"Generous of you, to grace us with your presence," the old one grunted sardonically.

"Tink nothing of it," Even responded, crossing his squat legs. "Vat's first on the agenda?"

Mace Windu sighed, a rumbling and wordless imprecation. "Jinn," he replied, succinctly.

"Vell, lets get it over vit."

The outer doors issued the tall maverick into the chamber a moment later. Qui- Gon Jinn strode the center of the inlaid floor and made a curt bow to the gathered Councilors. "My masters," he began. "At your request I have spent a week here in Temple, and I have observed all the initiates currently eligible for apprenticeship. The conditions of your command being thus fulfilled, I request re-assignment on a mission at the first possible convenience."

"A new student you have not selected," Yoda chuffed.

"No, and I shall not, master, as I have told you many times."

Even snorted audibly.

"You do not trust my judgment?" Jinn demanded, turning to the Lannik with a thunderous expression. Though roughly a third the tall man's stature, the senior master did not bat an eyelash.

"You don't say dat like you mean it," he placidly replied. "So no."

A very terse bow met this pronouncement.

"Very well, " Windu growled. "You have conformed with the letter if not the spirit of our dictate. We will summon you for a mission briefing within two planetary rotations. There are several situations brewing in the Rims which will require a skilled hand to be resolved peacefully."

"Thank you." Jinn made a deeper bow and swept out, proud head held high, blue eyes alight with a stubborn resolve.

Even watched him go, piqued by the man's sheer obstinacy and self-confidence.

And then a thought struck him – one sent straight from the Force. The image that flashed before his inner eye was so perfectly obvious and so elegant a solution to both Jinn's and his own indecision that he slammed his broad hands down upon his seat's armrests.

"Vell. I'll be damned," he said aloud, causing a ripple of surprise to pass round the chamber.

"Indeed," Ki Adi Mudi agreed, misunderstanding the tenor of his thoughts. "Qui-Gon can be quite intractable at times. I begin to believe that he will never teach again, and that we should desist in our efforts to force the issue."

"Not to vorry," Master Piell responded. "That old barve underestimates the Force. He's in for a royal vipping."

Even old Yoda's eyes narrowed humorously at this suggestion.

But it was true: rant and rave against the notion as he might, Qui-Gon Jinn was going down - and Obi-Wan would eventually get the teacher he so richly deserved. Because the Force itself was a firm proponent of Even Piell's adage: whether doling out lessons - in control, insight, or humility - always do it _ like you mean it._

THE END


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